Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(54)
Author: J.R. Ward

“Has this ever happened before?” Mels asked.

“If it did, it was before my time. Then again, I’ve only been here a couple of years. It’s a mystery.”

“Will you let us know when you can give a statement?” Tony interjected.

“That’ll have to come from my boss, but I’ll keep you posted under the table as much as I can. Now, what can I do for you?”

Tony glanced over at Mels as he picked up a little Cheetos bag and motioned to the guy with it. “So, Suraj isn’t just good at what he does here. He’s also got a knack for photo analysis, which is why I think he can help you.”

Suraj smiled again. “I’m a jack of three trades, actually—I also make a mean chicken tikka masala.”

“With the garlic naan,” Tony added. “Pure awesomeness.”

“So what kind of image are we talking?” his friend asked.

Mels took out the folder Monty had given her. “Before you look at all this…I can’t tell you who gave these to me or in what context they came into his or her possession.”

“What you’re saying is, I should forget I ever saw them.”

“Exactly.”

As the man palmed the folder and opened it up, Mels frowned and looked around. That sense of being watched ratcheted up again, tingling her nape and making her clench her hands. Except there was no one in the entryway. No one in the hall beyond. Nobody lurking behind Tony’s vending machines or under the godforsaken chairs or the bolted-down tables—

“I know this case,” Suraj said as he flipped through the pictures, and Tony leaned in for a look-see. “Yeah, this is the prostitute who was found at that motel—I recognize the clothes. These markings were not on her abdomen when she came in here, though.”

“And that’s the issue.” Mels reeled her paranoia in. “The official photographs of the body don’t show anything, but these, which are claimed to have been taken before the CPD ones, do. So I want to know if these images are touched up in some way.”

Suraj looked across the table. “Do you have the files for these images? JPEGs? GIFs?”

“No, the printouts were given to me, and they’re all I’m going to get.”

“Will you let me take these into my workspace for a minute? I’ve got a microscope back there.”

Mels eased in closer. In a low voice, she said, “The police do not know about these photographs, and I’m not sure what their owner is going to do with them.”

“So keep it quiet.”

“But know that I will not obstruct justice if that’s what this comes down to. I haven’t had them long, and I will move fast with the authorities as appropriate.”

“But you probably don’t want me scanning these into my computer and doing an analysis that way, do you?”

“I’d rather not make any copies—especially not in e-form.”

“Okay, I can tell a lot under the microscope.” The guy got up. “Give me ten and I’ll see what I can do.”

As Suraj left and Tony played point-and-shoot with one of the rubbish bins, Mels rubbed the back of her neck and thought of what she’d found in her damn pocket.

“I don’t suppose you know anyone who’s into ballistics?” she said.

“As a matter of fact, I do. What you got?”

Mels massaged her temples. “A headache, actually.”

“You haven’t bought your food yet. Much less consumed it.”

“Good point, my friend.” She got up and headed for vending heaven. “Very good point.”

27

As Jim stood just inside the break room across from the morgue, he got up close and personal with the fact that invisibility had its benes—and sometimes could put your balls on the rack.

He’d known the moment Mels Carmichael had entered the St. Francis medical center complex, and given the number of cops in the basement, it hadn’t been a total surprise that she’d beelined for right where he was. Unfortunately, he’d also sensed a reflection of Devina somewhere around—but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

And then he’d seen those photographs.

Unlike the reporter, her buddy with the munchies, and the doctor-type in scrubs, he knew exactly what those markings were—as well as who put them there.

And who had taken them off the body.

Those runes in the skin of that dead woman were exactly what had been on Sissy’s abdomen. A language, a marking, maybe even a message. And what Devina could carve in could probably be lifted—after all, she routinely created a three-dimensional image of perfection over her true, walking/talking corpse self.

An eraser job was not outside the realm of possibility….

As the guy with the hospital pass hanging from his lapel got up and left, Jim followed him and those pictures into the morgue, even though there was nothing he could do—and leaving the reporter was probably not the brightest idea.

Except why would Devina be f**king around with killing some random human woman? You’d think she’d be too busy worrying about the game—and that prostitute had clearly not been a virgin, so it wasn’t like she could be used to protect the demon’s mirror—

Hair color. Blond hair color.

Straightened hair.

Just like Sissy.

What were the chances. “Motherfu—”

The hospital guy stopped dead in the middle of the CPD clog and looked behind himself—and Jim sent a reminder to his mouth that invisible was one thing; silent was another.

As the man led the way down a hall and into a cramped, tech-heavy office, Jim stayed out of the way, settling back against a whiteboard marked with a grid of names, dates, and procedures. When the phone rang minutes later and the guy got distracted, Jim wanted to yank the cord out of the wall and refocus the bastard.

But come on. He already knew the deal; the question was who to be more pissed off at. Himself. Devina—

Jim frowned, as something dawned on him. During the check-ins with Adrian this morning, the angel had mentioned he’d been hanging out at a murder scene with the reporter.

What a frickin’ coincidence.

It was a good half hour before the man got up from his crouch over the scope to head back out to the reporter and her carbo-loading friend.

“So what’s the verdict,” she asked as he sat down.

“Okay, first the caveats. Without the digital file itself, or the ability to pixelate it and run a scan, I really can’t give you a one hundred percent—”